Chapter One

 

Am I not royal?  Am I not descended from royalty?  Was I not a worthy person to be in court in London, the centre of the world?  Of course I was. 

Why then did they look at me as if I should not be there, as if a ‘mere’ duchess should not be capable of walking the same flagstone floors as they, as if her shoes were not of the finest silk and the most delicate of beadwork and her clothes were not the very latest in fashion design and materials?  I assure you they did look at me thus and I also assure you that my clothes were the very latest, so they had no reason to do that.

Not everyone took that attitude, I hasten to add.  Not everyone looked at me in such a way. Only those who were of what they considered – wrongly - to be higher rank or breeding than myself.  Maybe I should have declared my background a little more, spoken of the court of Luxemburg, the splendid buildings which put these shabby London ones to shame by their very glory, speak of the tapestries, the art, the music, the learning, the –

But would they not have considered that I boasted?  After all, none had set foot there and had no way of knowing if what I said was true or untrue.  Knowing their minds, they would say it was untrue, that I lived in a dream world where all is right and I am superior to them in every way.

I am.

They, people who look down their patrician noses at me, think because they are of English nobility, those of us who have come from ‘other countries’ are not equal to them.  So let me tell them, every last one of them, my father was Peter I of Luxembourg, Count of Saint-Pol and hereditary Count of Brienne.  That’s enough titles to guarantee any man a place at the royal occasions in Europe.  My mother was Margaret de Baux, daughter of Francois de Baux, duke of Andria and Sueva Orsini. Do I need to go on?  Is it not enough to know that I was - and am - the eighth generation descendant of King John?  Trace it back; see that I am actually related to English royalty.  I almost want to say ‘take that’ but it would be childish and despite my desire to stamp my foot and say ‘take that, you English upstarts who have little to no history to match mine!’ I will not do it. I will retain the dignity I had from the start.

I recall my mother saying, in one of her endless lectures, ‘Jacquetta, my dear daughter, no matter what provocation you suffer, be dignified. Do not give them ammunition to throw at you, for they who are newcomers to the ranks of the mighty will seek to bring down those who are entitled to be in the ranks of the mighty.’  So it has been throughout my life.  I grew up associating with the highest in European aristocracy and never gave it a thought that life would be anything but perfect, always there would be money, food beyond needs, comfort beyond requirements, clothes for every occasion and some which were just there for my pleasure should I decide to wear them.

These changed year by year as I grew taller and fuller, as I went from lisping apparently precocious child - so I am told – to the woman who, in one ceremony, became a duchess.

In truth, if you want the truth, I was above all of them in rank, I was second only to the Queen when she arrived and so they had no right, none at all, to look down on me.  I was determined to fight back in the only way I knew, guile and skill. And I did it, didn’t I?

Oh I know the Wydevilles were vastly unpopular, the court disliked my schemes, my dynastic dreams which all came true, but they had no choice and that is the good thing, which I gloated over at the time.  They could try and look down on me, but they had no choice but to accept us, did they?

 

But before then … I grew up in a magnificent home in Luxembourg. Well, to me it was magnificent, anyway.  It was like a small castle, it had turrets and towers, it had battlements and windows, stairs everywhere, what I thought of as a Great Hall with the tallest ceiling in the world, I thought at the time. It was hung with tapestries, arrases if you prefer, with shields and swords and armour and had rushes, great thick layers of them, thrown on the stone floors.  Yes, it was in many respects like an English castle, ones I was used to seeing later in my life, but – there was an elegance about my home that was lacking in the castles I stayed in and visited in England.  Or is it my childhood memories which bring this to me now?  Were there not ornate carvings on the huge arches that took you from room to corridor to room, were there not niches in which Mother set flowers to lighten the place, for it was, apart from the tapestries, grey stone and grey mortar and it could bring down the spirits if it were not lightened in some way.  I recall many flickering torches lit most of the time, for the rooms were dark and the corridors, even with their many windows, also dark because of the heaviness and thickness of the walls.  I was surprised when I came to England to find no one had flowers anywhere in their great homes.  I was used to that and missed it. 

My room was small so consequently it was warm.  I had a fine carved bed, table, closet, mirror which I prized, thick rugs and thick coverlets.  I had nursemaids and servants who kept a fire burning all winter and the windows open to the air all summer.  I loved it. That was my sanctuary when everything got too much for me. 

My upbringing was strict.  Nurses, nursemaids, tutors, companions, all sought to do one thing, impress upon me my status in life. In my eyes I was a Princess. To the world I was European royalty, with an immaculate pedigree. Ask some of those who look down on us Wydevilles what their pedigree is. I wonder if they will answer you.  Forgive me for constantly referring to ‘them’ and ‘those’ but my life, from the time I married my first and indeed my second husband, seemed to be one of conflict with those who would try and denigrate my status.  Jealousy, I am assured it was just jealousy but that is difficult to live with when you are smiled at to your face and the knives are out if you turn your back.

There were those who insisted only the English aristocracy knew how to educate their children.  Wrong again!  For me, there were lessons and manners at all times to remember, no matter who was there. I was taught the right way to greet a duke, an earl, a count and so on, how to eat at table, how to converse, to dance, to be in a room or ballroom full of people and not let anyone feel you were neglecting them.  I would go to bed at times with my head spinning with do’s and don’ts.  And if I got something wrong?  There was always a strap handy and that stung.  I avoided it if at all possible. 

The correct way of deferring to those of higher rank to me was inculcated in me from a very early age.  I knew if I had children, that had to be passed on to them, too. Nothing was more important than treating those above you with the correct form of respect and addressing them in the right way, too.  Anything else would cause offence.  These were matters held in very high regard by all aristocratic people.

My parents were distant people; I was relegated to the care of the nurses, nursemaids, tutors and companions.  If I saw my parents, it was a formal occasion. I had to be washed, dressed, tutored and subdued before I was allowed into their presence.  They seemed like remote figures to me, I was told to love them but what was the meaning of the word ‘love’ when applied to those who patted my head, told me I was pretty and to be good and then dismiss me?  Respect, fear, yes, but not love.

I would tell the doll I treasured, a gift from an aunt who seemed to understand more than my mother about the needs of small girls, that when I grew old enough to have children, I would not be a distant mother. I would be with them, listen to them, play with them, watch their growing up on a daily basis, not a once a week visit.  I would care for them in every way, including working to secure their future lives.  My doll would stare back at me with knowing eyes.  She understood my need to make a determination for the future to counteract the loneliness of the present.  And it was lonely.  Very much left to my own devices, with kittens to play with and the occasional friend, but within the house, only what seemed to me to be aged nurses, tutors and servants to take care of me.

What I thought of as my growing years, my young adult years, seemed to consist of dances, dinners, formal balls, visits to other families, polite conversation and long dull evenings of not very much.  I loved fashion; colour, lace trimmings and materials but few others shared my interests.  Gowns, yes, the girls I met could discuss gowns for an eternity but not what they were made of or how to embellish what you already had by changing a collar, altering the cuffs, adding a petticoat and slashing the overskirt and edging it with lace and creating a new look – they would stare at me and then giggle,  “Oh Jacquetta, what quaint ideas you have!” Were they quaint?  I thought them innovative and interesting but I could not get others to see this. I abandoned that subject immediately.  Instead I listened patiently to their talk of suitable suitors, would this one do or that, did he have sufficient background, enough money, enough contacts, not was he a good person, would he make them happy.  Somehow ‘happiness’ was not meant to be part of our lives.

I wondered; I even talked to my nurse about who I would marry. I had been a ‘woman’ for a year or more, able to bear children, fit for the role of a wife but no one person had been presented to me as a possible husband and companion for the rest of my life.  The nurse had no idea why the subject had not been raised with me or indeed any part of the family.  She knew nothing and that was a surprise to us both, for she mingled with all the servants and knew all the gossip.  It was through this I knew that my mother and father did not share a bed or even a room, that they lived virtually separate lives.  I made up my mind then that when I married, I would be a wife in every sense, I would share my husband’s life in every way.  Just as I had plans to be in my children’s lives every day, so I would be wife and companion to whoever my parents dictated I would marry. 

Two major decisions.  One that I would be wife and companion to my husband, two that I would be a proper mother and be with my children, supervise them, watch over them, guide them and work for them.  I never deviated from those decisions, not once in my life.

My friends, one by one, were getting married. I went to this wedding and that, saw the smiling faces of some and the look of desperation in the eyes of others, especially the younger ones, for the men they were to be married to were old, infirm, ugly, unbecoming.  Some even looked cruel, to me anyway.  I saw the apprehension on their faces and wondered afresh at the endless chatter I had endured about who they would marry, what contacts they had to make them a worthwhile partner.  It seemed it was all very well to talk of these things but when the moment came to be tied to that person forever, the situation was rather different.  When you faced a lifetime of living with someone you might come to hate…

In that moment I realised my mother was not in love with my father and so they had separate rooms and separate lives. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be in love.  I wanted the closeness of the emotion called love, if I could find out what it was.  My friends talked of it endlessly, saying they ‘loved’ this one or that, but it seemed to me their feelings were transient, for it would change after a few months and some other handsome man would be the love of the moment. 

This went on for some time, until one day my mother called me to her room and told me, abruptly, a marriage had been arranged.  I was to marry John of Lancaster.  When I asked who he was, she told me, with a pursing of her lips as if annoyed that I did not know, that he was the 1^st duke of Bedford.  I asked what background he had, recalling the many conversations I had endured with the other girls of my age. 

So she told me.  I discovered my husband-to-be was the third son of King Henry IV of England and uncle to the current one.  Well, I thought, if nothing else, that would stop the mouths and the comments of some of the girls I had listened to endlessly! Not one of them appeared to be in line to marry the son of a king, even if it was the king of England and not one of the European royals.  I wondered what he was like, would he be old and ugly and infirm like the other husbands I had seen. Was he young, old, ugly, handsome, acceptable?

As if reading my thoughts, my mother said, “you will have a chance to meet His Grace. We are holding a formal engagement ball in two weeks’ time.  You will have a new set of clothes for the occasion.  The wedding will be on the 22^nd April.”

That was it.  I was dismissed.  I was seventeen years old and engaged to a man I had never met. Would I be expected to love him?  I had no one to answer any of my questions for no one was interested in the small detail of the man himself.  For them the only thing that mattered was Jacquetta was marrying a duke.  An English duke.  A royal.  So the talk went and so it was all that mattered.

Feeling lost and scared, I went to the chapel and prayed to the Virgin for help.  I asked her to help me love the man I had been betrothed to without my consent or even seeing him, asked her to help me accept the situation and make the most of it, to please my family and my future husband.  I asked for my dreams of a lifelong companionship to be made a reality.  The Virgin’s statue stared back at me, soundless, blank faced, empty.  Not a thought or even an impression came into my mind to answer my prayers.  I had to believe, oh how much I had to believe, that the prayers had been heard in Heaven and would be answered. 

Discreet enquiries and judicious eavesdropping told me my husband-to-be was elderly, to me anyway, being forty something years old, already a widower, his wife having died five months before the marriage he arranged with me.  That struck fear into my heart.  What if I died in childbirth too?  What then of my dreams … but dreams were for children, not for those of us with the responsibility of marriage and households and – what else would I be asked to do, I wondered?  I went back to the chapel, to the Virgin and prayed afresh, this time to be allowed to live.  This time I caught the flicker of a smile on the Virgin’s otherwise blank face, felt the comfort of a touch on my shoulder, knew this time my prayer had been heard.  I could relax. 

I wholeheartedly committed my days to preparing myself for the great ball whilst thinking about the man I was to marry, persuading myself I was already fond of him and would be a good companion and consort.